Chapter 1

The Imperial Astronomical Bureau said I had the destiny of a phoenix. But I was timid and weak-willed, and the Second Prince—the likeliest contender for the succession—wanted nothing to do with me.

The Third Prince couldn’t bear to give his principal wife’s position to the daughter of a minor official.

Yet making a woman destined to be an empress a secondary consort might invite disaster.

In the end, the Second Prince pointed to the Fifth Prince, the one furthest from the position of crown prince.

“Our fifth brother still needs a wife.”

Everyone knew the Fifth Prince was content with his lot. That was the polite version.

The impolite version was that he was utterly hopeless.

A phoenix married to a good-for-nothing would turn into a mere pheasant.

And so timid little me married a useless prince who cared only for enjoying himself.

The other princes thought we were a joke.

But as our son grew up, things began to get rather strange.

1

Zhou Jingze and I had one dream: whoever became emperor, we hoped he would give us a little fief where the three of us could live happily.

Jingze loved painting. Apart from painting, he couldn’t be bothered with anything.

I loved beautiful clothes. As long as I could afford them, I was happy.

His mother in the palace had long since given up expecting much of us. Occasionally, she would remind our stewards and matrons who was in charge.

With her directing things from afar, our household ran perfectly well.

The night I gave birth to our son, the pain was so terrible I thought I was going to die.

I told Jingze that, after my death, he must burn all my beautiful clothes for me.

He was a mess of tears and snot too, begging me not to die.

No other woman, he said, would put up with someone as useless as him.

A prince without an official post, retainers, or a faction to support him. He lived on his annual palace allowance and whatever his mother gave him.

Sometimes he felt ashamed. But he genuinely didn’t know how to do anything, and the very thought of fighting for power gave him a headache.

Luckily, I was just as unambitious. Every day, I found something different and delicious to cook, made new clothes, and enjoyed life.

“My love, you have to hold on. We won’t have another baby!”

He had barely finished speaking when I delivered.

When it came to naming our son, Jingze didn’t ask the palace.

Mostly because, even if he did, nobody except his mother would care.

The Emperor was far more interested in the children of the other contenders for the throne.

For the first time in his life, Jingze was bold. I’d suffered so much giving birth, he said, that half the baby’s name had to belong to me.

My surname was Meng.

Our son became Zhou Menghui.

Zhou and Meng had brought a little sun into the world.

Only much later did we learn that two hopeless softies could produce someone utterly ruthless.

Never mind. Thinking about it brings nothing but tears.

At the time, Jingze asked whether I liked the name.

I said I did. Very much.

Sure enough, the palace asked no questions and simply entered it in the imperial genealogy.

We were both first-time parents. We had no idea what other babies were like.

We first noticed something unusual when our son was nine months old.

2

Jingze’s favorite vase disappeared.

We both knew a household servant had probably stolen it.

But neither of us had much authority or enough brains to investigate.

If we asked the steward, his mother in the palace would certainly hear.

We depended on her. We didn’t want to upset her so badly that she fell ill.

We looked at each other in silence for a while and decided to let it go.

Then we put it out of our minds and happily took our son out to play.

I’d asked an old palace matron for advice. She said babies needed plenty of sunshine and someone to talk to them.

So every day, Jingze and I took Hui into the garden and spread out a clean cloth for him to crawl on.

He crawled while we sat beside him and chatted.

We assumed he couldn’t understand, so we spoke freely.

Jingze said the vase had been a tenth-birthday gift from his maternal grandfather. It came from the Western Regions. Losing it made him feel he’d let his grandfather down.

I said we could save up and buy an identical one from a merchant from the Western Regions.

He sighed. We didn’t have enough money this month.

With a baby came a wet nurse, baby clothes, and toys. Our expenses had grown.

He designed all Hui’s toys himself, bought the finest wood, and made them with his own hands. Only then did he trust them.

By the time we remembered to give Hui some water, he was gone.

To strengthen our bond with our son, we never let maids accompany us when we looked after him.

Hui was a good baby. He didn’t usually crawl far.

But on this particular day, neither of us had noticed, and he had vanished.

3

As we stood there panicking, Jingze spotted a trail on the ground.

“Hui must have left that.”

We followed it and finally found him.

A servant was holding him.

At the sight of us, the man hurried to explain.

“Your Highnesses, I found the young heir on the ground and picked him up.”

I took Hui and checked him from head to toe.

Apart from dirty clothes, trousers worn through at the knees, and slightly reddened palms, he was fine.

To make crawling easier, I’d had the seamstress reinforce the knees of his clothes.

“You little thing. You nearly scared your father and me to death.”

“No wandering off again, all right?”

With our son found, I was about to carry him away.

His face went red, as though he was straining to do something.

I jumped.

“Is he about to poop?”

“What if he does it on me?”

I hastily thrust him at Jingze.

“Quick, take him to the potty!”

Then Hui opened his mouth.

I’d heard that a baby’s first word was always Mama or Papa.

Hui’s was “Vase.”

We stared.

Why wasn’t he calling for his mother or father?

We had fed him, emptied his potty, and cared for him ourselves. How could he call for a vase instead of us?

“Sweetheart, say Mama.”

“Vase.”

“Son, say Papa. Papa.”

His dark eyes moved from me to his father.

He looked rather tired of us.

While we kept trying to coax Mama or Papa out of him, he pointed at a room and said two words.

“Flower vase.”

We weren’t complete idiots. We immediately had the door opened.

There, beneath a bed, was Jingze’s missing vase from the Western Regions.

Before anyone could even flog him, the servant who slept in that bed confessed.

His gambling debts had piled up, so he’d risked stealing from the prince’s household to sell the valuables.

The steward was delighted.

“At last, Your Highnesses are showing something of Her Highness’s abilities.”

We hung our heads, unable to admit that we hadn’t actually found it.

We guessed the servants hadn’t guarded their words around a baby. Or perhaps someone had seen something and let it slip within Hui’s hearing.

We were worried.

Hui didn’t seem like us.

He was very clever.

And in the imperial family, the cleverer you were, the sooner you died.

4

Jingze tried teaching Hui to recognize characters. He remembered each one after seeing it once.

By his first birthday, he knew every character in the Three Character Classic.

We were numb. What had two good-for-nothings like us done to deserve a genius?

“My second brother’s eldest is five. The other day, he recited a third of the Three Character Classic for Father, who praised him as a prodigy.”

I pouted.

“Hui can recite the whole thing.”

Then we both drooped.

In the imperial family, stupidity had its advantages. Throughout history, dull-witted royals who kept to their place could usually live peacefully to old age.

It was the clever ones who refused to stand behind others who died quickest.

We made up our minds.

Hui would have to pretend to be stupid.

“If you’re too clever, someone will poison you. No more of your favorite egg custard. No more milk. No more meat either!”

His eyes widened in alarm. He shook his head over and over.

“Hui isn’t clever. Hui is stupid.”

Luckily, he was still young and easily persuaded. We’d finally frightened him into listening.

Just when we thought everything was settled, the Emperor remembered he had another grandson.

Hearing that Hui had turned one, he decided to hold his first-birthday celebration in the palace.

The eunuch sent by Jingze’s mother told us, “Her Highness petitioned for this favor.”

“You must prepare the young heir well. Win His Majesty’s affection, and he may grant you a prosperous fief.”

We looked at each other, feeling terribly guilty.

We were so hopeless that his mother, already in her thirties, still had to compete for the Emperor’s favor on our behalf.

And we were planning to teach our son to hide his abilities.

That night, we sat beside Hui’s bed, looking at his little sleeping face in silence.

Jingze spoke first.

“Perhaps… we shouldn’t hide them?”

I shook my head.

“No. Your second and third brothers are fighting so fiercely. If we suddenly produce a child prodigy, who do you think they’ll want to kill first?”

He shut his mouth.

Before going to the palace, we reminded Hui again and again.

“You mustn’t pick the military tally, the seal, or the books. Food and drink are fine.”

“Understand?”

“Yes.”

He was only one, but his face was so solemn.

So adorable.

5

We went to his mother’s palace first.

Outside the hall, we heard several other consorts mocking her.

“Competing for favor at her age. How shameless.”

“If I were her, I’d be too humiliated to show my face.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Consort Ning has no choice. Her fifth prince has no prospects. They say he’s the only prince without even an official post.”

“So what if his son’s first birthday is celebrated in the palace? It’ll just be another joke. Two useless parents are bound to produce a little coward.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of the Fifth Prince taking the child out. Perhaps he’s an idiot.”

They laughed.

Jingze was about to rush in. I caught his arm.

“You’ll only make things harder for Mother if you go in now.”

“Besides, don’t underestimate her.”